


Somnia, memoriae

by Anonymous



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Implied Incest, M/M, Post-DMC5, Slight Canon Divergence, Underage Kissing, doesn't affect original events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dante dreams.The good dreams go like this: pizza parties with Trish and Lady; pool games with Nero; visits from Kyrie who, bless her soul, would always bring homemade food. They can also be of another time: his mother’s voice -never the best at singing but sweet all the same-  coming from the kitchen with the promise of delicious pie and summer picnics, afternoons dozing in the sun.The bad dreams, on the other hand, always involve Vergil. And sometimes, sometimes they feel like memories that are not his own.





	Somnia, memoriae

 

 

Vergil remembers a time when human emotion came easy to him. It seems eons ago, more of a dream than a reality. This picture of himself, a boy with a mother that feared and loved him. A brother that, at the time, wore a perfect rendition of his own face. A distant father who first visited once a month, then a couple of times a year, and then not at all.

 

This boy of icy blue eyes, with clinical curiosity, who looked at the world with the eyes of a doctor, or maybe a scientist. Vergil Sparda, who enjoyed poetry, reading, fighting, autumn. Who loved his mother even if she didn’t understand him, who both loved and indulged his little twin brother in his endeavors and mischief.

 

It all seems so far away, maybe even another life.

 

Vergil releases his breath slowly, measures the seconds in between inhaling and exhaling. His breath comes out in a fog, the frigid air of the winter morning chilling him deep in his core. He remains cross legged on the roof of Devil May Cry, watching the world rise slowly from its slumber.

 

It’s, as Dante would say, way too fucking early.

 

He can hear him, grumbling about stupid brothers and a cold bed, trying to get comfortable again just so he can keep sleeping for another six hours. Vergil can understand the sentiment, but these minutes of meditation every morning have become routine, and he needs them just so he can keep some of his sanity after everything that has happened in the last couple of months.

 

The memories of his fight against his son (and is not that fact just incredible?) disrupt his breathing and calm. Vergil keeps his posture straight, but his mind is in shambles. Him, a father. The idea seems a joke at best, disaster at worst. And yet, Nero is there. Very much alive, with the proof of his inheritance in every single aspect of his self: from the white hair, to Yamato’s reaction to him, to the very demonic blood that calls to Vergil, even now.

 

The oldest son of Sparda (or is he the youngest now?) tries his best to empty his mind once again but it’s an exercise in futility. The chill has become unbearable after disrupting the stillness, the worn clothes he is wearing doing nothing to protect him from the cold.

 

Snow is starting to fall.

 

He grabs Yamato and heads back inside, closing the attic door after him. His bare feet make barely a sound, and it only takes a couple of seconds before he is back inside the room he is sharing with his brother.

 

The bed is big but Dante is, as always, larger than life. He cracks his jaw yawning, covered from neck to feet in a wool blanket.

 

“What are you waiting for? It’s way too cold for this.”

 

Vergil doesn’t even blink; after carefully putting Yamato in its perch, he climbs into the bed and accepts the share of blankets that his brother offers him. It isn’t long before Dante embraces him, his warmth all-encompassing and absolute.

 

Even now, it seems impossible to have Dante so close. His brother, ever the practical man, decided that the complicated mess of their lives would not get in the way of sharing his space, of clinging to him exactly as he used to when they were children. Dante doesn’t fear the needs of his heart anymore, and the judgment of the people he trusts seems second place to keeping Vergil close.

 

How is this his life?

 

*

 

It was not always like this.

 

*

 

The air is suffocating. Vergil wants to pretend that the atmosphere doesn’t affect him, but he isn’t the kind of man that lies to himself. Nero, seated across from both brothers, radiates the kind of anger that can be tasted. Imperious and righteous in his fury, blue lighting crackles across his knuckles and Vergil braces for a punch that is most definitely coming.

 

“Explain.” Nero speaks first, his words tasting like vitriol on his tongue, judging by the scowl on his face. “And I don’t want to hear your bullshit, _uncle_ ”.

 

Vergil wants to speak but the words escape him. How can he explain the collapse of his soul? The fragmentation of his being, then glued together by demonic design. The empty abyss of his own mind, as Nelo Angelo. Of searching for purpose in the landscape of hell, needing to end what started it all twenty-five years ago.

 

Of Mundus, and his eyes that saw all. How he broke Vergil time and time again, until he couldn’t scream anymore. Until he forgot his own name.

 

Vergil doubts this is what Nero wants to hear, but it comes to his mind nonetheless.

 

“Kid, there isn’t much to tell.” Dante says. He wants to seem relaxed but the tension in his shoulders betrays him.

 

“What did I fucking say—.”

 

“I found myself in a field of darkness.”

 

Nero stops, his focus redirecting immediately to Vergil. The older twin takes a small breath, and looks straight ahead. Better not think about what happened back then and recount the tale like an outsider, detached from the reality of it all.

 

Dante grabs his arm, alarmed.

 

“Verg—.”

 

“LET HIM SPEAK.” Dante startles before looking back at Nero with his own kind of anger. A fight seems imminent; better to stop it before it starts.

 

“I had fallen to hell, and in my arrogance, believed myself capable of destroying the source of my misfortune.” A beat, silence reigns for a couple of seconds, and Vergil takes a moment to ground himself in Yamato’s weight.

 

“I met God, and His will was absolute.”

 

*

 

Dante dreams.

 

They range from nightmares to memories, but regardless of what they are, they always feel vivid. Even since infancy, the landscape of his mind would produce pictures that shook him to the core, their striking resemblance to the feeling of the real world too difficult to ignore. Sometimes, even when they were colorful and fantastical, humorous or symbolic, the feeling would stay with him for days.

 

The good dreams go like this: pizza parties with Trish and Lady; pool games with Nero; visits from Kyrie who, bless her soul, would always bring homemade food. They can also be of another time: his mother’s voice -never the best at singing but sweet all the same- coming from the kitchen with the promise of delicious pie and summer picnics, afternoons dozing in the sun.

 

The bad dreams, on the other hand, always involve Vergil.

 

Sometimes these dreams are grounded in his memories of their fights or of their childhood, while other times it’s whatever nonsense that his mind conjures just so he can stop missing Vergil so badly, to soothe an ache that has accompanied him for decades. The kind of dreams that make him remember his touch (hurtful or loving) are bad, but not the worst that can be. Even before V and Urizen, before Nelo Angelo and The Fall, his dreams of Vergil were an anchor. A twisted way to have him close and remember him by, even if he feels his sanity slipping a little bit more every day.

 

However, nothing compares to the truly bad ones, the nightmares that make him down every single bottle of hard alcohol that he owns until his body collapses; those are the kind that he fears the most.

 

Sometimes they feel like memories that are not his own.

 

In his dreams, a triumvirate of eyes. They are omnipresent. They have divine providence and, as such, don’t need to watch him to know Dante’s every move. He is alone in a radiant cell, the barbed chains that snare him drawing blood with every move that he makes, but he doesn’t allow himself to make any noise.

 

In these dreams, he is prideful even in pain. He refuses to give his captor the pleasure of his cries, so he wears his arrogance like an armor. He spits in the sacred cage of oblivion, his back straight and his resolve unfaltering.

 

Until he is not.

 

In the fountain of dreams, Dante’s body is whipped, flagellated. Violated. God wants him in service, fully and unconditionally, but He isn’t above pain as a means of cleansing. The divine breaks his body until he stops feeling it, until he draws blood biting his own tongue. Until the pain is just too much and he starts to scream.

 

When his body stops fearing the pain but craving it, only then does Dante wake up.

 

He spends weeks in an alcoholic daze every time that happens, but there is not enough whiskey in the world to make him forget.

 

*

 

“What is he doing?”

 

Honestly? Dante has no clue.

 

Mallet Island stands before them, the ruin of their past, the evidence of his mistake. In this place, Dante committed fratricide and the act branded him forever. Right now the island stands silent, free of the cacophony of human life, with nature slowly but surely overtaking it.

 

In the sky, he can see the graceful figure of Vergil’s Sin Trigger, the cut of his wings and the elegant arc of the tail as he planes in slow circles. Every now and then the flaps of his flight resound above them, but he shows no sign of tiring or even coming down.

 

“He’s been flying for hours.”

 

Dante can’t deny the observation. After getting out of hell, his brother has been restless. Dante believes he wants to make some sense of all the time that has passed, especially of the ten years of enslavement at Mundus’ hands that he doesn’t seem to remember very well. However, that’s a topic Dante refuses to touch, the memory too painful to revisit alone, much less with Nero who can’t ever hope to understand the mess that is his relationship with his twin.

 

Or lack therefore. Do they even know each other anymore? Twenty-five years lost. A lifetime of memories. Last time they stayed together for more than twenty-four hours they were twelve-year-old boys.

 

Mother would be ashamed of them. Ashamed of Dante, for not trying hard enough. Ashamed of Vergil, for making so many bad, horrible decisions.

 

Nero makes an impatient noise, kicking a rock with all his might, huffing about stupid twins and the colossal pain in the ass that was driving here.

 

A couple more minutes, and Vergil seems to have had enough. He glides in their direction, lands with perfect precision in front of them, the strength of the air current ruffling Dante’s coat.

The transition between human and devil is flawless. As he stands, the air shimmers around him, blue particles of energy surrounding him until his body comes back from the cocoon of the demonic power. Not a hair out of place, Vergil opens his eyes slowly, as if emerging from a deep dream.

 

A pause. Dante usually cloaks himself in bravado and bad jokes, but this is a hornet nest he isn’t in the mood to poke. He has no fucking clue what Vergil is thinking half of the time, but he can understand his brother’s body language and general moods. Obviously the enlightening moment that he was searching for in the sky didn’t come to him.

 

Nero has no such understanding; he only wants them to stay a family. He is probably thinking that Vergil wishes to leave, to understand himself better in solitude, to reach some kind of interior peace that he will never get with the consequences of his actions surrounding him.

 

Tough luck.

 

“Did you found what you were looking for?” Nero asks.

 

“I was unsuccessful.”

 

“Told you so,” Dante says.

 

Vergil throws a scathing look his way, but doesn’t say anything else.

 

“So what, we came here for nothing?” Dante prods. “Sloppiness is so unlike you, brother.”

 

Dante doesn’t understand why he is being so confrontational. Ever since coming back from Hell, Devil May Cry became a minefield where the two of them walked on eggshells around each other. He almost misses their time in the underworld, where their conversations consisted mostly of the clash between their blades, a form of communication almost as old as they were.

 

Vergil doesn’t take the bait, starts walking back to the car. Nico waves at them.

 

“Old man, are you sure you want to go back?” Nero asks. Bless the kid, he’s trying so hard. “We could stay a little longer.”

 

His brother stops for a second, looking with a blank face at the charming scenery before them.

 

“I’m sure. Thank you for asking,” an unsure pause. “Son.”

 

Dante cringes. Nero looks unsettled.

 

It was going to be a long way back.

 

*

 

Memories are a fickle thing.

 

The place is familiar, the ache of a time long past deep in his bones. The patio, with all the little wildflowers in bloom: bluebells, lilies, daffodils. Hundreds of dandelions.  His mother, seated under the shade of a tree, in the distance shrieks and laughter of two little boys.

 

The world around them seems hazy/distorted around the edges, like watercolour, composed of blurred movement and colors that he doesn’t care to make sense of. The wind rustles the trees, but there isn’t any noise. His existence at this point of time is plenty irrational, but the feeling of sunshine in his skin is refreshing. Pleasant.

 

If this is a dream he doesn’t want to wake up.

 

Giggles reach his ear, suddenly a lot closer than a couple of seconds ago. Little hands touch his face with delicate curiosity, the sweet smell of two freshly bathed little kids playing in the sun. Vergil opens his eyes and there, seated right next to his head is Dante, in the glory of his six years of youth.

 

He is grinning happily, his hair a silver halo, perfectly messy. His white shirt is stained green from playing on the grass, little delicate petals clinging to him. He looks radiant, happy, blushing from exertion and curiosity.

 

“Hi, dummy”.

 

Vergil merely blinks, trying to make sense of his position. He is laying in the grass too, apparently sleeping.

 

What was he doing?

 

“Good afternoon” he replies.

 

A sigh to his left, and right there is his own face, in the body a child. His young self looks exasperated, not at Dante but Vergil himself. A distant part of his brain knows that he is losing the battle of rationality, embracing the dream for reality, and running from something that he can’t seem to remember.

 

“Do you wanna play with us?”

 

Play? He doesn’t want to move. Vergil takes a breath and lets it out, the world slow moving in between each beat of his heart.

 

“Don’t be silly, Dante” his young self says, his little hand cups the sharp cut of Vergil’s jaw, intently watching his face, “This old man isn’t going to play with us.”

 

“Why not?” young Dante pouts, crossing his arms with annoyance.

 

“He is tired, and in pain.”

 

Tired is probably the understatement of the century, pain now part of a routine that hasn’t left

him for years.

 

But young Dante doesn’t care about restraint. At that age, the both of them didn’t understand a lot about the difference of good and bad, and their actions were dictated only by feeling and instinct. In a lot of ways, they were feral children, unbound by the morality of humans. Poor Eva got the short end of the stick when she gave birth to the Dark Knight progeny. Only her infinite love and patience -that only a mother can profess- had given her the strength to deal with the insanity that was demon children.

 

Surprisingly, Dante doesn’t throw the tantrum that Vergil was expecting. Instead, he lays right next to his head. He makes himself as small as he can, the sound of his little heartbeat exactly at Vergil’s ear. Vergil’s own younger self chooses to lay chest to chest, crossed arms under his chin, and between the two of them he can pretend that he is far away.

 

“Sleep with us then!” Dante says, and the idea is sweet. Exactly what he needs. “You will feel better in no time.”

 

From what was he running away?

 

He can’t remember.

 

*

 

This feeling. This moment right here, he wouldn’t change for anything.

 

Bullets flying everywhere. The rhythm of the fight, his blood singing and crying for more. More enemies, more blood, more chaos. The liberation that comes every time he smashes the ugly mug of these demons, the thrill that seems even sexual at times. He has a semi right now and he can’t blame anyone but himself.

 

Even since their time in hell, it’s like his inner demon is even more integrated into his mind. He feels younger and according to Lady, it looks like their little vacation took at least five years from his face. Vergil has some complicated explanation, something about biological adaptation and an organic self-defense system against the corruption of hell. Assimilation of much needed nutrients and antibodies from the very core of demonkind.

 

He remembers the very first time he drank blood directly from the still beating heart of a very specific type of demon that they found there. It was like a hellish mash-up between a deer and a lion. Vergil had made him drink every last drop of it in an effort to make his body endure the corruption; and if Dante shook and trembled, clung to his brother through every spasm and shiver, well…

 

Whatever. Only Vergil’s stoic gaze was his witness.

 

Right now, back in the human world, he doesn’t need it anymore. The urge doesn’t even come to him. But the fights have gotten fiercer somehow; he gets more excited and a little bit more prone to destruction.

 

Dante needs an outlet so he can ignore that he is getting absolutely zero sleep. The nightmares have only gotten worse, and Vergil’s absurd need to recover every damn memory is only getting more annoying. Why must they still deal with the past? What’s done is done. Dante isn’t even asking for a damn apology or for them to be lovey dovey, he doesn’t even want to talk about it.

 

He wants his kin by his side. Nero, Vergil. The girls. Devil May Cry, with its noisy pipelines and displaced floorboards. A true home to call his own.

 

Is that too much to fucking ask?

 

He doesn’t even notice that he is growling, the sick crunch of bones and vertebrae resounding in the empty parking lot. Since when has he stopped using his blade? The scent of blood is overwhelming. He is basically half triggered.

 

“Dante.”

 

Breathe. He needs to remember where he is. The job, hunting, Vergil. His brother, whom he loves and hates in equal measures. His other half, watching him. Is he worried? That can’t be. Vergil hasn’t cared about anything or anyone since forever. Or does he? There is this little furrow in his brow, and he is clutching Yamato a little bit tighter than needed.

 

Dante is so tired. He just wants to sleep.

 

“The rush has stopped.”

 

“Pfft, there were like a ton of these fuckers.” A laugh, it sounds empty even to him. “Where are they? Take me to them.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“What? I’m just having a little fun.”

 

Vergil frowns. He looks so serious it tears another laugh out of him. What is he even worried about? Nothing from this side of the world can defeat them.

 

“You can’t even hear them anymore.”

 

Now it’s Dante’s turn to frown. He tries to clean his hands of the bloody mess by shaking them a little. Vergil doesn’t even have the courtesy of looking disgusted, but whatever. Now that the high from the fight has passed, the silence is staggering. Where are Nero and Nico? They never stop making noise.

 

It’s like they are alone again, at the top of their own messed up version of Babel’s Tower. Dante doesn’t want this silence, but he doesn’t want to speak about whatever is brewing in Vergil’s mind. He opens his mouth, ready to tell some bad joke, but his brother beats him to it.

 

“I want to go to Mallet Island.”

 

What? _Again?_

 

“Again?”

 

Dante doesn’t have the patience to deal with this anymore. His brother doesn’t even give him a decent explanation, he is just cryptic and silent and emotional constipated. Can’t even make a fucking effort.

 

“Maybe later.”

 

“I’m not asking for permission.”

 

Dante stops walking, just so he can look at his brother more closely. There are little blood specks in his left cheek, a stark contrast against the pallor of his skin. Alabaster white, unmovable and impassive. Dante wonders if Vergil has the presence of mind to notice what happens around him, or if he truly just has his head that far up his own ass. Does he understand the impact of his death? How Dante spent decades trying and failing to live like a decent human being without him? Mourning him?

 

“Why do you even want to go? It was pointless last time.”

 

Vergil’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes don’t meet Dante’s. So much for trying to communicate like adults.

 

“I want answers.”

 

Dante sighs. He can’t deal with this anymore. Another day revisiting the tomb of their messed up past, where he fought and killed his own brother. He can’t do it again, not so soon, certainly not tomorrow or the day after. Or ever to be honest.

 

He is done.

 

“Do what you want.”

 

Finally, Vergil meets his gaze. He opens his mouth, closes it. Frowns furiously after a second. It looks like he has wants to say something really badly but, like always, Dante can’t read his mind. Effort needs to come from the both of them; Dante already did a lot by forgiving Vergil without demanding anything at all.

 

Before he can talk, a shout startles the both of them. It’s Nero and Nico, the van’s tires screeching bloody murder on the deserted street, the deep bass of music destroying the stillness of the moment. As it is, Vergil clams up; Dante resolves not to think about it. Ignore it. Whatever. Vergil can do what he wants; they’re grown men and his brother can defend himself perfectly well. Dante has firsthand experience on Vergil’s viciousness with the blade.

 

If Vergil wants any progress to be done between them, he will have to step up his game. Dante has done enough.

 

*

 

“What’s up with you, old man?”

 

It seems peace was unlikely with Nero around. Vergil takes a breath, trying  his best to deflect the question: he fails spectacularly.

 

“None of your business."

 

“Listen, I heard your stupid request to come back here, so you fucking bet we’re going to talk about this.”

 

Vergil frowns. Such language.

 

“Crass.”

 

“Yeah, whatever you say, deadbeat dad.”

 

Vergil tried to be angry at Nero’s disrespect, but he spoke nothing if not the truth. His relationship with his son required his attention. Nero had already demonstrated that he could and would use force if it was what his relatives needed to understand each other, but lately, he tried a little bit of everything before resorting to it.

 

Mallet Island stands silent before them. Here, seated in these ruins once again, without his brother’s expectant gaze on his back, he could reflect on a past that eludes him with every step. Why is he searching so much for memories that are obviously painful? What’s the point of any of it? It shouldn't matter at all because the important things he remembers, exactly as they were: the demon tower, his fall and defeat at Mundus’ hands, ripping off his own son’s arm. Hate and love so visceral, Vergil remembers burning from the intensity of it.

 

He shouldn’t be doing this. What was the point of ( _mine, mine_ ) V’s familiars’ demise? The voice of his heart insists he misses their company, but pride overcomes the feeling.

 

It should be easy to abandon this need; such memories will only hurt him. Why can’t he let go?

 

“I think I broke Dante’s patience.”

 

A snort. Vergil looks at his son, and sees in his face a pained kind of incredulity.

 

“You did that alright.”

 

*

 

Even since they were kids, Dante knew that loving Vergil involved a certain degree of hurt.

 

According to their mother, their birth had been chaotic and full of complications. He remembers the dark cut of Sparda's coat against the hearth’s warm light, but not so much of his expression, as they talked about it. Most of his face has eroded from his memory, but what he can't forget were his words:

 

"I'm surprised they survived at all” he had said, with no mind to his sons’ presence. Sparda was sympathetic of humanity, but tact he did not have. Even since that fateful day, Dante resented him. “Demons who are born at the same time tear each other apart."

   

_"Sparda!"_

 

"I'll not lie to you, Eva." His father's voice had sounded impassive, but Dante always had more interest in his twin’s reaction. Pressed close to his side, Vergil had been attentive to Sparda’s words. “Do you understand the circumstances that give birth to demons? In hell, there is no love. Fraternity, as such, is non-existent.”

 

Their sweet mother had been furious. Dante used to know how the cadence of her breath changed when she was angry. Vergil had looked intrigued, interested in all the nuances of demonhood, but Dante only wanted his brother’s attention.

 

So he resorted to what he did best: annoying the shit out of his twin, which ended in a fight right in front of their father. If he had been a little more patient, he would have had the chance to hear more about what Sparda thought of their unlikely bond. Of how their shared soul was a blessing in a world where they had no one else, for it would only make them stronger. That even with nature against them, they would prevail.

 

Much later, at the top of a demonic tower, in front of his wayward brother, he would remember the same words. Dante would think then, how his father had been right all along: they were born to tear each other apart.

 

Vergil had discarded his humanity, decided that it was beneath him. He had looked at Dante with an emptiness so arctic, it was a wonder there had ever been a brother in him at all. They had shared utero; the same bloodstream had fed them. They were the same down to their atoms and yet, when it came to their hearts, Vergil’s laid cold and abandoned at the ruins of their home, with all the memories of their love.

 

*

 

Vergil is pretty sure his face seems unfazed, but inside, he is dismayed.

 

Has he been so blind?

 

“You look surprised” Nero says, and Vergil can’t help the sputter that comes out of his mouth. Part of himself, the mad fragments that remain of Urizen, curses V and the way he reintegrated humanity so deeply into his being.

 

He feels transparent, his despair easy for the world to see.

 

Nero looks back to the horizon.

 

“Does it hurt so much to apologize? At least once?”

 

Apologize? To Dante? He’s never done anything of the sort. Why did he raise Temen-ni-gru? The Qliphoth? He ended human life like they were expendable in the grand scheme of things, and maybe they were, but does he regret it? He needs to believe otherwise. Regret clouds the mind and destroys resolve.

 

“I don’t feel guilty. I wanted to fight him again.”

 

Nero sighs, like it hurts him.

 

“Why?”

 

Why? His motivation?

 

“I needed to…”

 

Need to. Want to. Desire. _You’re mine._ His head hurts. What was it? A cage of light, an eternity in the palm of his Master’s hand. A wasteland with no end, and only the memory of Dante to keep him alive.

 

He doesn’t notice the shift in his own hands, claws tearing his skin, until Nero gets a hold of his forearm. The gesture, so strange coming from his son, grounds him.

 

“... see him again.”

 

Nero smiles. It’s a small gesture, pained and resigned. More than what he deserves, after everything.

 

“Then, what’re we waiting for?”

 

*

 

This memory is his own, and it starts innocent enough.

 

Now that Dante is much older, he can understand all the ways in which they had been precocious. The possessiveness that overwhelmed him then, this inherent desire to have Vergil’s attention on him. He had been greedy and selfish, and it ranged from toys, to mother, even Vergil himself. His twin had been patient because Eva, dutiful mother, insisted on bestowing upon him the role of big brother, nevermind if they were only minutes apart.

 

Dante, brat that he was, took full advantage of it.

 

This moment will be forever engraved in his mind because here, by humans standards, started the downward spiral of their bond. He kissed his own brother for the first time at twelve years old, in the silent library of their childhood home.

 

He had seen some older kids at the park, in the dim light of twilight. His own hands, sticky with melted ice-cream, had laid slack as he watched them breathe into each others’ mouths. A clumsy but passionate exchange, the boy’s hand laid boldly under her skirt, touching a place he had never considered before. When they noticed his presence, it was already too late.

 

He ran back to his house, bothered and intensely curious. He kissed Vergil clumsily back then, too excited by the prospect of trying new things, too young to fully understand the implications of what he was doing. Loving Vergil came easy to him, hugging him close while their tongues touched sent an electrifying current through him, so intense that the world seemed to fall apart. Back then, Dante didn’t have the balls to touch his brother where he wanted most.

 

When they separate, his brother speaks:

 

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

 

He startles, and the library dissipates as smoke around him. He can’t move, and he is someplace humid, a thin layer of liquid on the surface. He can’t decide if it’s water or blood. This place seems suspended in the nether, deep underneath the crust of the earth, the heaviness that he only remembers belonging to one place. Is Dante back in hell?  Maybe he never left at all.  Maybe he finally succeeded in drinking himself dead.

 

At his side, Vergil looks down on him. He looks exactly as he did that day, but there is no warmth in his eyes.

 

Dante can’t help the chuckle that escapes his mouth, and he notices curiously that he’s back in his adult body. Hell should make up its damn mind.

 

“I was a stupid kid.”

 

“You say that as if you have changed at all.”

 

He isn’t wrong on that front.

 

He tries to move, but agony courses through his body. Moving, even millimeters, sends waves of pain so agonizing, it steals his breath away.

 

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you” he says, nonchalantly.

 

Vergil sits heavily on his chest. He has got something small in his right hand, between thumb and index finger. It dawns on him then, where the pain comes from.

 

Needles, hundred of needles, all embedded in his joints. They are so deep in his skin, he couldn’t take them out even if he wanted. His brother, or the demon that took his appearance to torment him, chuckles in amusement.  

 

“You know, this is—” a gasp escapes him as a new needle goes under a nail. “New. Coming from you.”

 

His brother smiles, a delicate upward tilt on his lips. He looks immaculate, the softness of his face doesn’t betray his intent.

 

“I’m always studying new ways to torture you.”

 

Now it’s time for Dante to chuckle, but the expression on his face must show some of his bitterness. It must be because Vergil, his beautiful mess of a brother, gets impossibly close. The smell of him is sweet, almost unbearable. His eyes are mercury, Yamato’s edge made flesh.

 

“Behold, brother mine”.

 

His hands, small but impossibly strong, take a hold of his neck. He starts slowly, but surely, choking him. Each fraction of strength seems cataclysmic, the heaviness of their shared mistakes in each breath that he steals away.

 

“ _This_ is what we are” Vergil smiles. It’s a cruel thing.

 

This isn’t the Vergil of his childhood, who loved him back. This isn’t Vergil from his teens, frost on his heart and contempt in his eyes. This isn’t even the husk named Nelo Angelo, who was his brother only as a corpse; the abandoned carcass that once contained his other half.

 

Vergil kisses him. It's tender, so unexpectedly gentle, that Dante wakes up. He heaves and throws up immediately.

 

*

 

“The truth is…”

 

Nero makes an inquisitive sound as he stands. It’s getting dark, and Vergil can say with certainty that he will get nothing else from this place.

 

“We were made to tear each other apart.”

 

Nero stops; looks at him blankly. The ocean rages at the distance.

 

This feeling is probably something that his son will never understand. Vergil can’t, in good conscience, ask him to. Life has proved to him time and time again, that he and his brother are destined to clash together, to burn the world to ashes. Maybe Dante will kill him again, and make no ceremony of it. Maybe this time Vergil will do it, and hopefully join him in another life. What is even their purpose now, other than this?  

 

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

 

Vergil blinks.

 

“Come again?”

 

Nero puts his hand up, exasperated.

 

“Listen to yourself! Where does it even say that you two need to kill each other? You’re brothers!”

 

“My father said—.”

 

“I don’t care what he said!”

 

Nero grabs him firmly by the shoulders, looking at him unflinchingly. Only Dante dares to get so close, and these days his brother barely speaks to him at all.

 

“Listen to me, _V_ ” the name is like a slap to the face. “Whatever people say, you two need to make _peace_.”

 

Before Vergil can answer, Nero stops him by sending him a warning look.

 

“Every time you guys fight seriously, the world is _this_ close to ending.”

 

Vergil can’t say anything to refute that.

 

“For the love of…” Nero sighs, finally letting him go. “Just speak to Dante. Please.”

 

Vergil is speechless. Nero, his son. His blood, his progeny. Vergil feels captivated by him. He wishes he could do more than stare, maybe explain himself more truthfully. He has only known Nero for a couple of months, has done absolutely nothing for him in all his years of absence, but Vergil knows that a part of himself already loves him. A kind of love that burns different from Dante’s, but so bright that it blinds him.

 

For now, the memories may as well be gone forever, but it’s something that he will have to come to terms with. In time, it will probably be for the best.

 

*

 

Dante has never been more drunk in his life. The mess that he made stares at him, and Dante stares back. Usually his unnatural metabolism burns the alcohol a lot faster than it can affect him, but so many nights without getting a decent rest must have taken a toll on him. More specifically, the most recent product of his imagination that keeps repeating itself in his mind. He finds himself fumbling for the bottle once again.

 

When he brings it to his mouth, it’s empty. A fit of rage overtakes him, and the crash of crystal against the wall resounds inside Devil May Cry. In the background, a man’s voice comes from his jukebox, melancholy and sorrowful. Or maybe Dante is projecting? Who knows.

 

_Did they get you to trade_

_Your heroes for ghosts?_

 

Dante laughs at the nerve of this man. Who does he think he is, talking about ghosts? As if Dante isn’t living with one. Where is the alcohol? He needs to be comatose once again.

 

_How I wish, how I wish you were here._

 

“That makes two of us, buddy.”

 

It takes a lot of effort, but he manages to shut down the machine without breaking it. He isn’t in the mood to hear that song. His vision is dancing, blurring at the edges, but he’s nothing if not determined. The silence is overwhelming, he shouldn’t have turned it off. He stumbles across the room, knocking more bottles and one or two empty boxes of pizza. Who even keeps count? His brother barely eats and--

 

No. Better not to think about him.

 

It’s too late though, and he can’t even make it to the stairs before he falls.

 

*

 

“Are you sure you’re not coming?”

 

Nero nods. At his side, Nicoletta is impatiently lighting another cigarette. The machine rumbles and Vergil decides it’s best to take a step back.

 

“Come on, V-man. I’m beat and this baby needs some repairs” she says, blowing smoke carelessly aside.

 

“Verg—... Dad. Don’t forget what we talked about.”

 

He grimaces. It almost feels like their roles are reversed. Nero looks at him expectantly, clearly waiting for a positive response. Vergil needs to do his part, so he nods. Today, he will talk to Dante, and maybe reach a temporary understanding. Apologize, if not to humanity, at least to him.

 

“I will try.”

 

Nero sighs. So much suffering he gives to his son, Vergil almost feels remorse.

 

“Just do your best, alright?”

 

After he loses sight of them at the street’s corner, there is nothing else to help him avoid the inevitable. His brother’s home stands before Vergil, unexpectedly dark and silent. These days Dante sleeps a lot less than what he remembers, but Vergil never thought too much about it. Maybe he can’t stand being in such a vulnerable position with Vergil around and honestly, he doesn’t blame his brother.

 

When he enters, the stench of liquor assaults him. The office is a mess, as always, and Vergil has been meaning to do something about it, but he has neglected it. He has, truthfully, neglected more than just this place; it becomes clearer than ever as he locates his brother, sprawled on the stairs.

 

Incredible.

 

“What is this foolishness, Dante.”

 

Dante barely reacts. In his hand, a bottle of Everclear, probably the only thing in the human world capable of intoxicating his brother to such degree. Vergil looks down at him, and the realization just then almost knocks him off his feet.

 

Is this his fault? Does his presence give so much grief to his brother, that he needs to drown himself in alcohol every night? Maybe staying with Dante was a mistake. Maybe Vergil should have shoved his brother across the portal, and never returned to the human world again.

 

But see, he’s selfish too. He can’t help himself. This need scorches his soul, it exposes all the ugliness of himself to the world. Dante, who drowns in sorrow, who owns a half of him before they were born. His idiot brother who loves so furiously, and Vergil himself, who is incapable of putting an end to both their misery by staying dead or killing his brother once and for all.

 

Vergil loves him. It doesn’t hurt to accept, in the sanctuary of his own mind. He will play older brother once again, if only for Dante’s sake.

 

*

 

Warm. It’s so warm. And wet? Dante comes back to the world slowly, the light from his bathroom blinding him for a moment.

 

He notices immediately that the warmth comes from hot water, and that he is decidedly naked in his own bathtub. How is there even hot water? He’s pretty sure he didn’t pay for that. Maybe Lady did? Dante doesn’t even remember getting as far as the stairs.

 

Movement to his right catches his attention and there he is, Vergil, kneeling by his side. He changed the top half of his attire for something more comfortable, a loose black t-shirt that probably belongs to Dante. In his hands there is a sponge.

 

Was he honestly giving Dante a bath, of all things?

 

“Welcome back, brother,” Vergil said.

 

Dante blinks.

 

“... I have to say, I’m surprised,” Dante says.

 

“How so? Your level of intoxication was remarkable, even for our demon blood,” Vergil says, putting the sponge aside.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Vergil hums. “You have probably reached a level never achieved before. Congratulations.”

 

“You know I hate to disappoint.”

 

Dante leans back, looking at the ceiling just so he can stop looking at his twin. Tries to relax again. His brother doesn’t leave, and he wonders what’s even going on. Vergil could have dumped him on the couch and called it a day but here they are, banter flowing back and forth, like all is perfectly well and dandy in the world. Is it better to pretend? Should he break this fragile facade?

 

Vergil takes that decision from him.

 

“Dante, please look at me.”

 

 _Please?_ Dante obeys. He takes note of the restlessness in his brother’s eyes, the sharpness usually there missing in a rare moment of vulnerability. Exhaustion is radiating from him in waves.

 

“I have decided to put an end to my research.”

 

Dante waits. It can’t be.

 

“Say what?” Dante asks.

 

“I have noticed that something ails you, and I can’t possibly ask you to share what it is, but if it has anything to do with—.”

 

Dante can’t keep hearing this. It’s too much. He jolts and grabs his brother by the back of his neck, his other hand searching purchase at the edge of the bathtub. The motion displaces the water, making a mess of everything. Doesn’t matter. What is important here is that his absentee brother is trying to reach out, and he needs to be sure that this isn’t another hallucination. Another nightmare. He gets as close as he can and Vergil doesn’t oppose him.

 

In Dante’s state, it should have been impossible to force anything onto his brother. He lets himself be manhandled by his own free will.

 

“It’s the dreams, brother” he confesses. Something crumbles inside of him.

 

He doesn’t know what is coming from his own mouth. Vergil blinks slowly, grabs his forearm firmly, but doesn’t interrupt. Their foreheads touch and he feels starved, needy for contact. Since coming back from hell, they’ve barely touched at all.

 

“But y’know, I don’t think they’re mine.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Vergil says.

 

“The things that I see, they’re not mine,” he repeats. Wonders for a second how can he possibly explain.

 

“What do you see, Dante?”

 

A breath. Dante trembles, but there’s no cold. His brother is an anchor in the storm, a safeguard for a drowning man. He needs to explain, get it out of his system. But how?

 

“A light cage. Chains. Myself, but… in a mirror.” It doesn’t even touch the surface, but he can’t say more.

 

_You two share a soul, my dear._

 

_A piece of your brother will always be with you._

 

“I saw it all, but it wasn’t me… it was you.”

 

Vergil doesn’t say anything. His thumb is rubbing slow, deliberate circles in the skin of Dante’s arm. It baffles him, the comfort coming from the gesture, so unlike his brother. The same man that ripped off his own son’s arm.

 

“It’s over, my dear Dante” Vergil finally says as he gets up.

 

Dante already misses the contact, but he’s mentally exhausted. His brother leaves, and for a moment he wonders if he’s had enough. Vergil was always the most independent of the two, the one who valued space, solitude, silence. All things that Dante wasn’t.

 

However, life is never so easy. His twin comes back, a towel on his shoulder and with one swift motion, hauls him to his feet. Dante feels himself blush, but Vergil pays no mind to his nudity. His hands are efficient, there is no hesitation to his motion. It only takes a couple of minutes for Dante to be mostly dry and walking to the only bed in his home. The only bed they had been taking turns to use, because they’re too old to share anymore. Because they can’t stand each other, or maybe it’s the idea of showing such a vulnerable state when all they seem to do is fight, break each other until the pieces don’t fit at all. In his head, they all sound like the empty, childish excuses.

 

He isn’t sleeping with Vergil because he is afraid.

 

Everything is happening too fast; Dante can’t fight his brother. He blinks again and he’s lying down. Vergil covers him with the bed sheet, watches him intently for a couple of seconds and then turns to leave.

 

“Wait.”

 

*

 

Dante’s voice breaks his momentum, stopping him in his tracks. Vergil’s mind is a whirlpool of thoughts, after his brother’s confession. It was pretty obvious that the source of Dante’s sleepless nights was Vergil himself, but how was he even doing that? Maybe it was a witch? A demonic curse? Dante must have hundreds of enemies; where to even begin?

 

“Please, Verg.”

 

His brother looks more exhausted than ever; the redness of his eyes, the slump of his form. Vergil knows what Dante is asking for, and for a moment he feels like fleeing.

 

Is it too soon to feel hopeful? Or too late?

 

_I need..._

 

It’s now or never. Their relationship is at the edge of a precipice, the embers of their devotion almost at its ends. If Vergil walks out now, he will be putting the final nail in the coffin of their bond.

 

Vergil decides not to take the chance. Taking his boots and pants off, he swiftly takes the other side of the bed. He lays down and faces his brother, appreciating the eternal scruffiness of his face, the curve of his lips, the silver-blue of his eyes. Silence reigns between them, their hands only inches from each other.

 

The distance feels astronomical. They were never meant to be apart.

 

His brother doesn’t even blink. He keeps watching Vergil, attentive, without judgement or reproach. There’s a little twitch in his fingers, an involuntary reaction perhaps? Possibly containing himself. His brother was never exceptional at restraint.

 

“For what is worth, I…” the words catch in his throat.

 

_Say it._

 

_Just say it._

 

Vergil closes his eyes for a moment, needing a second to steel himself. Eloquence escapes him, like he has never read a damn book in his life. Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes, not ready for what he sees.

 

There are tears in his brother’s eyes, wet tracks that cross the bridge of his nose and land soundlessly in the pillow. His indomitable brother, who faces the world with an armor made of an easygoing attitude and carefree smiles; laughing? in the face of every challenge that life throws at him. Dante, who after twenty-four years of separation, didn’t hesitate when Vergil’s demon-half rose as an abominable creature. Ready, as always, to take the weight of the world on his shoulders, to do what nobody else could.

 

He doesn’t get the chance to finish his poor attempt of an apology. In an instant, he has his arms full of Dante, who starts to weep furiously the moment he has his twin in his embrace. Maybe crying is not the right word for it, as Dante heaves and shudders, his grief a storm that sweeps them both. Vergil resolves to hold him, rubbing his back and stroking his hair with all the gentleness that he hasn’t allowed anyone else to see.

 

Dante, on the other hand, clutches him with every ounce of his strength, hides his face in the column of Vergil’s neck. His hands roam everywhere that he can: from his hair, his arms, the expanse of his shoulders. Once he seems satisfied that he’s real, he calms down but doesn’t let go.

 

“This isn’t easy for me” Vergil admits.

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

A wet chuckle. “Me too.”

 

It hurts to admit, but here, with Dante as close as he is, with the wreck of their history surrounding them, he can finally be truly honest with himself. In the end, there was nothing to be gained from shunning his brother: only decades of servitude, torture, and loneliness.

 

Dante, despite his furious hangover, refuses to sleep. They talk about everything and anything until the sun rises: Vergil’s teenager years of persecution, running and fighting from demons sent by Mundus. Dante’s life of hiding, adopting new names and shady identities until he was strong enough that he didn’t need it anymore.

 

Of meeting Nero, this boy so like Vergil that it hurt Dante in the well of his soul.  The kid and Yamato only reminded him of his mistakes.

 

Vergil confesses, in a whisper, about the woman that stole his first time. How he doesn’t even remember her name. Being drunk, just as Dante was tonight, and doing the second stupidest thing in his life _(the first one was leaving you)_. He admits, softly, that what called him to her wasn’t her face or her body, but how much she loved red.

 

Red, Dante’s eternal favorite, the definition of his being. Crimson-red, like the shawls their mother wore. Passion-red, the roses of their childhood garden. Blood-red, as every drop that stains the edge of his sword when they fight.  

 

Eventually, Dante’s eyelids start to droop. He wants to keep listening, hear every story that he missed, but exhaustion drags him down.

 

“Sleep, Dante” he says, pressing a soft kiss to his brother’s lips. Dante, already half-sleep, barely reciprocates. The chaste sound of their exchange resonates in the room, but there’s no heat nor desperation in the act. Only then does Vergil allow himself to shed one, single tear, to mourn their past.

 

Just as dawn breaks, Dante sleeps with no dreams or memories to haunt him, only warmth.

  
  
  
  


  
\+ Bonus

 

“Wait a second” Nero says, incredulous.

 

The twins exchange a glance, seated side by side. Nero, meanwhile, paces the office like a caged lion.

 

“What you’re trying to tell me is that you—” signaling to Dante.

 

 “Were dreaming about his—” now to Vergil and he pauses, still disbelieving, “—memories?”

 

Dante takes another drink of his beer, and his father says nothing at all.

 

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

 

“And that you” Vergil again “only found _yesterday_? And that all this drama was because you didn’t think to talk _at all_? That you only did because _I_ asked!?”

 

Dante has the grace to at least look ashamed.

 

“I can’t believe it!” Nero says. “What did you two assholes even do in hell?!”

 

His absolute fuck of a father, looking as stupidly handsome as ever, merely tilts his head at an exact angle of forty-five degrees.

 

“We fought, of course. As we said, there was a score to settle.”

 

Nero still can’t believe it.

 

“I can’t believe it!! It’s like a bad movie!”

 

Dante sighs, like the conversation bores him. Well, fuck him too.

 

“You know what? Screw you two, this isn’t over!”

 

He finishes his own beer in two swallows, puts the bottle down and goes in a straight line towards his sword. So much for not appealing to violence.

 

“Get up you two, we’re sparring and this time, I will kick your asses so hard you will learn to talk like responsible adults!”

 

Dante merely laughs and looks at Vergil with a blinding smile, so good natured that Nero is pretty sure all he had seen from his uncle until then were poor imitations of the real thing.

 

His father smiles back.

 

“Let’s rock, kid.”  

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> I would like to thank [sootandshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow), without them this fic wouldn't be half as good. Also, I love to feel validated, don't hesitate to comment if you're curious about anything. 
> 
> Also note that this fic has modified canon ages a bit, as some interactions wouldn't be possible otherwise. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Until next time.


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